


If You Can't Take the Heat

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Minor Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Reality TV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 00:37:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10321427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: Monty doesn't think he's going to win this baking competition but he might end up with a prize of a different sort.





	

**Author's Note:**

> because yesterday was pi day and the great british bake off is so pure and lovely and ultimately because miller and monty deserve nice things. i might do the bellarke side of this story at some point as well.

To his credit, Monty is barely startled at all when Nate suddenly flops down next to him and drops his head to Monty’s lap with no warning at all. He’s dealing with this insane crush just fine, thanks.

“Hello to you, too.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this exhausted,” Nate groans. Monty wets his lips and looks around, but nobody else is in the suite right now. Bellamy somehow convinced Clarke to go on a run with him before shooting starts for the day (which doesn't sound like fun to Monty even without having to get up before the sun) and Gustus got sent home the third week, so Monty _knows_ there’s no one else around. Still, that doesn’t stop him from feeling a little self-conscious as he reaches out to pet Nate consolingly.

To his utter delight, Nate leans into his touch, nuzzling his face against Monty’s knee. It’s _awesome_.

“There’s a simple way to ensure you’ll get more rest, you know,” he teases, giddy over even this smallest of victories. “You could just throw the challenge this afternoon and then you can get as much sleep as you want.”

Nate grunts, the sound somewhere between a laugh and his usual curmudgeonly ways. “You wish, Green. I could kick your ass even in my sleep.”

Sadly, Monty is pretty sure this is true. Each week on _Bake It ‘Til You Make It_ has gotten progressively more challenging: time limits dropping, difficulty levels rising, the pressure mounting as the competitors get sent home one by one. Everyone is going bigger, grander, more ambitious, but Monty feels like there’s only so big he can go before he outpaces himself. He can’t keep up with the aesthetic brilliance of Clarke’s designs, the risks Bellamy takes, Raven’s structural masterpieces, or Nate’s consistent technical perfection. He’s creative with his flavors, sure, but one of the five of them has to go home this week. He’s afraid it’s going to be him, and he honestly wouldn’t blame the judges for making that choice.

And honestly, he’s going to be bummed to see any of them go. After months in the hotel together, commiserating over challenges that were rough, celebrating each other’s wins, he’s really come to like these people.

Some of them, maybe too much. The thought of Nate getting sent home, of maybe never seeing him again, makes his heart twinge in ways he doesn’t want to think about just yet.

“You talk a big game but I want a fair fight, so you should get some coffee,” he says, patting Nate’s head and going back to his phone.

He hasn’t done a great job of answering Jasper’s texts this week-- all of them are dead on their feet from the relentless pace of filming, not to mention every spare moment spent in planning or practice. He hasn’t had the emotional energy to spend on keeping up with Jasper’s life, or even to feel very guilty about that. But with Nate in his lap it's more than a little difficult to concentrate.

Nate groans again. “I don’t want to move. I’m fine right here.”

Monty bites back on a smile. “Suit yourself.”

If Nate wants to stay like this for the next forty-five minutes until filming starts, he’s not going to complain. Not one bit.

* * *

Monty peeks into the oven and sighs heavily. “Shit.”

When he looks up, Nate is raising his eyebrows at him from his station, even as he never stops his frantic whisking. If Monty weren't so stressed, he'd be smiling back. Or drooling over how hot it is to watch Nate in his element, all confidence once he steps into the kitchen.

“They're gonna have to bleep that out."

“I can see it leaking,” Monty explains, running a hand through his hair, tense.

That's not the end of the world.”

“You don't know that.” At this stage, any tiny mistake could be the thing that sends them packing. Everyone is so good that no one can afford to have an off day.

“Maybe not,” Nate says easily. “But my money is on a nuclear apocalypse.”

Monty snorts, surprised that he wants to laugh at a time like this. “Robot revolution all the way.”

“But can Siri make a raspberry torte?”

He shakes his head, the smile playing at his lips proof that Nate has succeeded in calming his nerves. “Let’s not give Raven any ideas.”

Monty’s anxiety ratchets back up with a vengeance once he goes to remove his pie from the oven and finds that it’s falling apart.

He doesn’t quite know how it happened. It worked just fine in practice, so of course something would go wrong live. The bottom is sagging, springing new leaks right and left, the whole thing is too unstable for him to move from the tin to the stand for presentation. And he’s got less than a minute remaining.

He’s panicking so much he nearly drops the whole thing.The only reason he doesn't is because someone else swoops in to save the day, steady hands catching the falling edge and helping Monty maneuver it into position.

When his life stops flashing before his eyes, he realizes Nate is standing next to him, hands now firmly grasping Monty’s piping bag as he begins to fill in the cracks. It’s good thinking, quick thinking, and he quickly grabs the other bag to start on the other side, working around to meet Nate in the middle. Soon, they’re standing shoulder to shoulder, Monty’s brain almost too fried to be affected by his proximity.

Almost. And then--

“Time,” Maya calls brightly. “Step away from your pies.”

He and Nate both leap back, Monty stumbling into his side as he wilts in relief. To his surprise, Nate wraps an arm around his shoulder and squeezes once. He’s firm against Monty’s side and smells like sugar, and Monty is crazy about him.

“You did it,” he tells Monty reassuringly, too low (hopefully) for the mics to pick up.

“We did it,” Monty corrects him, half laughing, half trying to catch his breath. “It’s not pretty, it’s not sturdy, but it’s _done_. Thanks to you.”

“Don’t thank me until you make it through the elimination,” Nate says, gruff.

Monty grins as he reaches up to dislodge his microphone. Officially, they’re not supposed to turn them off, but he doesn’t want this part to be for the audience, or the network, or the stupid show. Nate wants to keep him around. Nate _likes_ him. This can be just for them.

“And if I make it through?” He prods. “Then do I get to thank you?”

Nate studies him carefully, his eyes darkening at the suggestion in Monty’s tone. His tone is unreadable when he says, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

* * *

He doesn’t get a chance to follow up on what Nate means by that. Not with the first round of judging, in which Monty barely scrapes by, and not with an afternoon full with the lightning round and one-on-one interviews.

With so few competitors left, the show runners are using this week to delve more into each person’s background, the story that brought them here. Monty and Raven break out his deck of cards while they wait for the others to finish, and Clarke is the first to join them.

“You cry, Griffin?” She teases, and Clarke glowers at her. For a bunch of beautiful, television-friendly faces, theirs sure is a surly bunch.

“Over what?” She snorts, nodding to Monty to deal her in. “The years of culinary classes I took? My crushing financial debt? I only cry about that in private.”

“I hear that,” Raven says, cheerful. As far as Monty can tell, she’s purely here because she decided she wanted to be and there’s nothing in the world that could stop her. He’s not sure how they packaged that for the viewers, but it will be interesting to find out, he guesses. “Blake going now?”

Clarke nods, blushing and rolling her eyes. “When I left they were just asking about Octavia, so he should be done talking sometime next week.”

Monty shoots Raven a smirk. Clarke and Bellamy have had the friendly antagonism thing going since week one, with heavy enough sexual tension that Monty doesn’t think the editors will have to exaggerate it at all.

“And Nate?” He asks. Now it’s Clarke’s turn to smirk.

“ _Nate_ should be back any minute. They’re probably playing up the hero angle.”

Monty shakes his head but Raven nudges him.

“Don’t even pretend you don’t have a crush on him. You two are almost as bad as those two.”

“Hey,” Clarke says, indignant. Monty has to smile.

“He saved my ass today. Can you blame me?”

“Nope.” Raven is as smug as he’s ever seen her, but he can’t bring himself to care. She’s right. There’s no use pretending at this point. “How’d the judging go?”

“Alright.” He makes a face. “Indra eviscerated me over the presentation, but Roan said mostly nice things about the taste, so--” He shrugs. “Fifty-fifty, I guess.”

Mostly, he’d spent the judging round as he had every round so far: pleading with the universe to make it through and wondering how either of the judges are qualified when they have way too much muscle between them to convince Monty they've ever digested any kind of dessert. He always watches them closely to see if they really swallow their bites, sure each time that this will be the week their bodies reject the mass of carbs and fat outright.

“That's not too bad. Could have gone a lot worse,” Clarke says, clearly an attempt at reassurance. She means well.

“Yeah, I’m glad you managed to save it.”

“Didn't want you guys getting too comfortable going into the lightning round.”

“Don't worry, I’m the opposite of comfortable,” says Raven, tapping her knee brace. This competition is a fair amount of standing, a fair amount of squatting to keep an eye on the oven, and while she’s never complained once, Monty knows it has been taking its toll on her.

“But you're still the one I'm watching out for,” Clarke tells her. Raven twists her lips to one side, trying not to smile.

“Thanks,” says Monty dryly.

“You almost dropped your pie today!”

He pauses. “Good point.”

They're halfway through their game by the time Bellamy comes strolling down the path. Clarke’s eyes flit over his form quickly, but it's not in any way subtle. From the way Bellamy smirks, Monty can tell he doesn't miss it either.

“Is there room for one more?” He asks, settling in between Clarke and Monty. There’s definitely more space on Month’s other side, next to Raven, but nobody mentions it.

“We can deal you and Miller in next game,” says Clarke. He frowns and looks around at the circle, as if only realizing there are other people present.

“Miller’s not back yet? Kane took him for his talking head before I even started mine.”

Monty frowns  “We haven't seen him.”

“And Monty would remember,” Raven adds helpfully. Monty flicks her outstretched leg.

When Nate still hasn't shown up by the end of the round, he shuffles and passes the deck to Raven.

“Bellamy, you can take my spot. I'm gonna--” He gestures vaguely.

“Sure.”

He passes Kane and Sinclair, deep in conversation, as he makes his way back to the kitchen, so he knows Nate has to be done by now. Usually they all hang out in the green room if they get twenty free minutes between things, but he guesses Nate might have gone to get a jump start on preparing for next week’s semifinal challenge.

When he gets there, he's surprised to find Nate meticulously wiping down his station. The show has people who do that for them; every other setup already looks spotless, as if he cleaning crew has already been there.

He meets Monty’s eye at first, but quickly drops his gaze again.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Monty drags his stool over beside Nate’s empty one. “What’s up?”

“Just needed a minute.”

“Oh.” Monty frowns. “I can go, if you want.”

“No, I don't mind.” He folds his rag with care, draping it over the edge of the sink. When he turns around to face Monty, leaning back against his counter (and looking, in Monty’s opinion, as if he could easily be on the cover of a cooking magazine), his expression has lightened some.

Monty is casting around for something to say when Nate asks, “Your package is about how you used to cook with your mom, right?”

“Yes and no,” Monty admits, sheepish. “I mean yeah, my mom taught me some stuff, mostly family recipes. But my real story isn't so, uh-- made for TV.”

“No?” Nate gives him a crooked smile.

“I didn't really get into baking until college? My roommate and I would get the munchies, and he’d get these ridiculous ideas of what he wanted. Like… cheeseburger cupcakes, Pringles and pickles on ice cream.” Nate makes a face of disgust and Monty laughs. “Yeah, really gross shit. But I would decide it was a good idea, you know? And then when we were juniors, he had a really bad trip to the ER and decided he was going to stay sober, and it's not all that exciting to get high by myself, but we'd still... It was still kind of fun, just putting random stuff together and seeing what I could make with it.”

“I can see how the producers would try to work it from a different angle,” Nate laughs. Monty ducks his head.

“It's not super family-friendly, that's for sure.” He pauses. “But yours is about your mom, right?”

“Yeah.” His smile fades just a little. “When she went into remission baking was a thing we'd do together. Kind of-- celebrating that she was feeling better and had her appetite back.”

"How old were you?"

"Nine."

Monty swallows, noting the heaviness in Nate's tone. “That's really nice."

He wants to say something more meaningful, but he's not actually very good at this part. People tell him he's a good listener, but in situations this weighty, he tends to only be quiet because he doesn't know what to say. So he does what he does best: he turns on the stove.

Neither of them speak as Monty starts assembling his ingredients, measuring, stirring, mixing over the heat while Nate watches curiously.

Finally, Monty says, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn't your mom--”

Nate nods, looks down at his feet. “The cancer came back when I was in high school. It's been years since she passed, and I don't usually get very… emotional about it. Anymore.”

“But everyone’s emotions are running high right now,” Monty supplies, and Nate smiles softly.

“You’re telling me. This one guy almost cried over a pie this morning.”

“If you've never cried over pie, you're not living your life right,” Monty sniffs.

Nate’s smile widens and he bumps Monty’s hip with his own. “What are you making?”

“Hot chocolate. Comfort food.”

"Am I that sad?" He asks, but he sounds amused. Fond, even.

"Maybe it's for me. I did almost flame out this morning," Monty jokes, smiling over at Nate. He's so  _close_ , watching him through the fan of his eyelashes. Monty's breath catches in his chest.

Nate wets his lips, an entirely unfair move, and then he’s leaning in to brush his lips against Monty’s. He lets out half a gasp before Nate catches his lower lip, one of his hands cupping the back of Nate’s neck. For a moment, he forgets where they are, what they're doing, basically everything around him. All he knows is the feel of strong hands gripping his waist, his heart bursting wide open, the easy, playful way Nate licks into his mouth.

He crowds Monty against the counter, his thumb tracing along his jaw like Monty is something special. Something precious. It’s an entirely _romantic_ kiss, which is more than he was even hoping for. He figured if anything happened between them, with the pace of their schedule, it would be a fast, hot hookup. Romance hadn't figured into the equation. But Nate is kissing him like he's trying to tell him something, like he never wants to stop. It's dizzying, to the point where the phrase 'head over heels' takes on new meaning for Monty.

When a bubbling sound breaks through the haze, he tears himself away, resting his forehead against Nate’s and laughing.

“At least let me turn the stove off,” he teases. Nate doesn't move away as Monty leans over to flick the knob for the burner. As soon as he straightens again, Nate is lifting him up and onto the counter, stepping smoothly between his legs and leaning in again.

“Hang on, hang on.” Monty reaches past him for the timer, barely able to keep his concentration with the scrape of Nate’s stubble on his neck.

“I didn't realize I was on the clock, here.”

“The crew is coming back in to set up for tomorrow,” Monty reminds him, winding his arms around Nate’s shoulders. “Besides, we have a hotel room.”

Nate grins against his skin. “I like the way you think.”

They make out until the timer beeps, and then Monty finishes the hot chocolate, both of them smiling into their mugs as they sway closer to each other.

“You good?” He asks. Nate presses a kiss to his temple.

“I'm good, yeah. I wasn't feeling that bad in the first place, honestly. Just a little… overwhelmed from talking about it. Plus sleep deprivation.”

“Sorry I made you talk about it more.”

He shakes his head, his eyes warm. “Talking to you is different. It’s-- I knew I’d feel better.”

“And do you?” Monty fishes, giving him a teasing grin. He smirks back.

“ _So_ much.”

The best part is, it doesn't sound sarcastic at all.

* * *

At the end of the week, Monty gets eliminated.

He's not all that shocked; it was pretty easy to see it coming, after the near-fiasco in the first round. Honestly, he's a little relieved. Now he can sleep in, play video games, not live every minute of every hour with the competition hanging over his head. And no matter who wins, he knows they'll deserve it and that he'll be over the moon for them.

They all hug him, even Roan and Indra, which is an Experience. Nate goes last, his fingers slipping under Monty's collar at the nape of his neck, the most affection either of them is willing to show on national TV. 

"We're sad to see you go," says Kane after they've wrapped, clapping him on the shoulder. "If you give us your flight info, we can have a car pick you up at the hotel."

"Nah, I think I can figure it out," Monty says, smiling easily. Just because he's been sent home doesn't mean he's  _going_ home. He's got a place in Nate's bed for as long as he stays in the competition. And probably after that, too. They haven't talked about it much yet, but he's hoping.

Nate is waiting for him outside and slips his fingers between Monty's as they head back to the room. 

"You okay?" He asks, squeezing once. Monty squeezes back.

"I've always been pretty realistic about my chances," he admits. "I didn't ever imagine I'd win it all."

"You could have," Nate grumbles. He sounds a little like he wants to fight anyone and everyone about this decision, like he's ready to go into battle to defend Monty's baking skills. It's more than a little bit endearing.

"I'm sort of disappointed, but-- I got the prize I really wanted."

Nate's fingers squeeze his again, but Monty thinks this time it might have been involuntary. 

"It kind of feels like we already won, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Monty agrees, not even bothering to hide his smile. "That's exactly what it feels like."


End file.
